


Pride: 1972

by stories_and_thyme



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Cisswap, F/F, Ineffable Wives, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), genderbent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stories_and_thyme/pseuds/stories_and_thyme
Summary: The year is 1972 and London's first Pride has just happened. An angel and a demon celebrate.





	Pride: 1972

**Author's Note:**

> some one in the discord was like: "I NEED MORE WIVES CONTENT!" so I wrote this
> 
> no, it's not beta read...correct me if you see mistakes please.

The smile that was spread over Aziraphale’s face was as bright as all of God’s stars, including the sun. As she looked out into the dancing crowd of lovely men, women, both and neither she could see and feel the pure love and happiness that poured from them. 

Today had been the first pride, and surprisingly it had gone without too much issue. There, of course, had been jeers by local onlookers and slurs had been thrown and misogynistic comments had been rampant between both gay and straight men but all in all the first London pride was perfect.

It was a perfect start to something new. To liberation, to freedom, and to societal acceptance.

Aziraphale was currently the less luxurious section of Greater London nursing a cheap wine in an underground den, of what one who was the holier-than-thou type might call, inequity. It was simply a hidden Gay Club where those who had less than tolerating friends and family-- so anyone like Aziraphale really-- could let go of their worries and fears.

“Excuse me angel, is that you?” a feminine voice somewhat rough around the edges asks behind Aziraphale and she turns around to see her old...hereditary enemy looking at her.

“Crawly?” The woman in question is wearing a much too short, new-age looking black mini skirt with knee-high boots that only ascent her long, gorgeous legs. Luckily for Aziraphale, she’s wearing a bland, almost proper dark top that doesn't exaggerate her chest but still, she can’t help but rack her eyes up and down the taller lady with admiration.

Choosing to ignore the way Aziraphale so obviously does a double-take she snaps back, “You know it’s Crowley, stop that! I changed it over a millennia ago, you should remember.”

Aziraphale lets out a small giggle and tilts her wine glass up to take a drink, her eyes still not leaving the other’s body. “Oh I know dear girl, but it’s so fun to tease you.”

Crowley blushes a little, though it’s hard to see under the darkness of the club. “Well that’s not very angelic of you, now is it?”

“Hm, I suppose not. What brings you here?”

Sitting down to the barstool next to her Crowley takes off her glasses and orders a whiskey from the bartender who doesn’t even seem fazed by the golden snake eyes. “Angel, you know me. You know these are my people,” she motions to the group of sweaty, joyful people.

“Yes. They are mine too, I did spend an excellent night with Sappho after all.”

“Didn’t we all spend a fabulous night with Sappho,” Crowley muses with a far-off glance. “I mean, who could resist her, really?”

Aziraphale nods and takes another sip. “She stole my heart…”

With a snort, Crowley informs her, “Oh angel, she stole woman-shaped beings heart. The original heartbreaker. At least she wrote a poem about you.”

“She did not.”

The whiskey Crowley had ordered is placed in front of her and the demon gulps it in one go before continuing the conversation. “Really? I always thought the quote: ‘Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for a girl’ was about you.”

“It most certainly was not.”

“Perhaps that was just me projecting, eh?”

“What?” Aziraphale mutters, nearly dropping her wine on the floor. With wide-eyes begging for more insight the angel stares at Crowley.

Crowley, instead of being a woman and repeating herself simply stands from the bar, puts her glasses back on, and dives into the sea of people moving along with each other. Aziraphale doesn’t chase her, she hasn’t drunk enough wine for this conversation. She needs at least another glass and a half.

Luckily-- or unluckily depending on how you might view it-- Aziraphale manages to guzzle three more glasses of poor quality Red into her system before she sees Crowley again. It’s still later tonight, only a few hours have passed, but in those few hours so much has changed.

The two are outside now. Aziraphale stumbles up from the basement of the establishment unable to find it within herself to sober up. Crowley is leaning on a street lamp smoking a cigarette as she shifts her eyes across the road as if waiting for something.

Crowley’s make-up is horribly smudged now. Her bold black eyeliner is worn and her pale lipstick needs another coat applied. She looks like she’s had fun though. When the blonde woman manages her way up the stairs and on the street level she says, “How’s it going, Angel?”

“Tickety-boo,” Aziraphale gargles out, drunk of her ass.

“Clearly.” Crowley inhales her cigarette lazily. “Do you mind sobering up for me? I’ve got something I want to ask you.”

Taking a deep breath the angel manages to work out a miracle. With the snap of her fingers and a whole lot of effort she’s no longer wasted but her head pounds like the dickens. “Yes, dear?” Aziraphale then rubs her temple in an attempt to stop her head from spinning. It’s in vain.

“What did you mean when you said: ‘you go to fast for me, Crowley?’” It’s been three years since Aziraphale said that but everyday Crowley thinks about it.

Blinking slowly she opens her mouth but then closes it. Aziraphale isn’t sure how to word this, she thought she was straightforward the first time and she hasn’t the foggiest idea how to make herself clearer.

“I meant you live far too fast for me. One moment you’ll be here with me in the bookshop and the next you’ll be dousing yourself in holy water. You go too fast, I can’t-- No, I won’t let myself just be another one of your fancies. I won’t let you just leave me,” she replies honestly.

The women stand on the street corner in silence for a minute as Crowley lets her words seep in. Finally, she asks, “Do you think I have commitment issues or that I’m suicidal?”

“Isn’t it a little of both, my dear girl?”

“I don’t have commitment issues.”

“Oh no?” Aziraphale raises a brow in disbelief. “Then why are you always fluttering from one thing to another. Fashion, hobbies, slang, anything and everything! The only thing you haven’t gotten rid of yet is your beloved Bentley!”

“And you,” Crowley says while throwing her cig butt on the ground and giving it a good stomp.

“Yet,” she repeats herself lowly.

Crowley removes her glasses for a second time tonight, hangs them on her collar, and turns to Aziraphale with an earnest expression. “Never could get rid of you angel, never. And I told you the holy water isn’t for me, it’s for someone else.”

Weary blue eyes meet those vibrant yellow ones. Aziraphale sighs, “I don’t believe you.”

Taking the hands of the ethereal being Crowley says, “When have I lied to you angel? When?”

“Never my dear.”

“And I won’t start, alright?”

“Alright,” Aziraphale’s chest tightens and she feels her artificial breathe hitch. She’s suddenly reminded of the year 1941 when she was tricked into helping Nazi agents. She remembers Crowley saving her-- and her precious books-- just in the nick of time and how wonderful that felt.

Aziraphale realizes now that all her fantastic moments have happened with Crowley. The opening of the bookshop, the daring escape from the guillotine, the marvelous dinners at The Ritz, all of her best moments have been with Anne J. Crowley!

And knowing that makes her feel something. Something akin to what humans would call ‘romantic attraction’ but Aziraphale knows, as a being made only of love and devotion, that what she feels for Crowley is something so much more powerful than that.

A car rolls up next to them. It’s black and in impeccable condition. Without anyone’s assistance, the front doors open and Crowley tries her line again. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go angel…”

This time Aziraphale gets into the Bentley and stays.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos, comments, key smashes, whatever! All are welcome!!! ( I do love comments tho uwu)
> 
> tumblr: storiesandthyme


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